Deep in My Heart is a Song
by Mylos
Summary: Porthos has a talent he's shy about sharing. Athos and Aramis just appreciate the moments when he does. Pre-Series. Very BroT3. Some minor angst for all three.


A/N: A snippet set pre-series, featuring Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. This came about as the result of a prompt over on the dreamwidth meme. It was posted over there some time ago, though it was more inspired by the prompt rather than a direct fill for it. The only part of the prompt imperatively relevant to this fic being Porthos semi-secretly having an amazing singing voice, while being shy about it.

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 _Deep in My Heart is a Song_

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It was early yet, when Athos found himself descending the stairs to the courtyard in a quiet and near-empty garrison. So early, the existence of the morning sun was merely a suggestion, evidenced only by a gray-white hue touching the rooftops and dusting the walls, without yet a ray of gold to accompany it.

Achy from the roughness of a drunken sleep, he stumbled with his grip around the banister. Catching balance with both hands, he went still, breathing in cool air that was, as yet, unburdened by a day's activity.

Relieved at the way it wove through his bucket-drenched hair and sharpened his skin, he was tempted to hold the moment. To close his eyes and let it linger. So rare was this kind of quiet. And he might have, if not for spotting Aramis across the yard.

It was his position that drew Athos's worry. Perhaps his expression. Perhaps something else entirely. But something.

Whatever it was, it drew pinpricks on the back of Athos's neck.

On the landing outside the water room, Aramis was folded down against the coarse siding near the doorframe, knees drawn loosely to his chest. He was staring out at nothing with a faraway gaze. His face holding an emotion Athos couldn't name.

Narrowing his eyes, he evaluated Aramis's body language from head to toe, seeking clues.

The deeper perusal revealed nothing, beyond the disconcerting reality of an Aramis strangely oblivious to being watched.

Unsettled, Athos touched his sword, curling fingers through the grip and scanning the yard before lowering his hand.

It was foolish to think some intruder might have infiltrated the Musketeer's living quarters and put Aramis into this state – even with most of the garrison away at Orleans. But the unsettled feeling remained.

Decidedly descending the final step, Athos crossed towards him. Treading softly across the dirt, he made little noise until his heel touched the planks outside the stables, and Aramis finally looked his way.

Presented with the full view of his comrade's face, Athos stopped, resisting the urge to touch his sword again only just. There was a stark and open vulnerability in Aramis's eyes that made him frown.

 _'What is it?'_ he was about to ask, but just then, he heard it.

Behind the barely-open door of the washroom, someone was singing.

Low as it was, the timbre was warm and smooth, with a familiar richness that moored itself in Athos's heart and made his lungs flutter.

 _Porthos._

He felt the air go soft and static and looked at Aramis anew.

Aramis returned a helpless nod, seeming to be at a loss for the moment. Tilting inward, he closed his eyes, tangling fingers through his hair as he held still to listen.

Equally transfixed by the sound, Athos closed the gap between them with quiet steps. Detaching his sword belt, he hung it carefully aside before folding himself down next to his friend. Sinking slowly until their shoulders touched and he became the side-mirror to Aramis's position. The faded burgundy of his shirt meshing under the shadows with Aramis's faded gray.

From here, the singing was clearer – cleaner – and, soft though it was, seemed to send warm vibrations through the wall at their backs.

For a long time, neither of them spoke or moved. Absorbed in the way Porthos's voice rose and fell, running over their skin like shimmering sunlight.

Next to him, Aramis rolled his head forward, pressing it to his knees. His back rising and falling with a quiet breath that prompted Athos to rest a palm between his shoulder blades, rubbing smoothly while the soft sound of gold continued to drift out to them.

He felt strangely sober, as he listened. More so than could be accounted for by a bucket of ice water and the coolness of dawn. Sober in a way that didn't ache and didn't pull. Sober in a way that prodded at the thick darkness of regret below his breastbone and eased its heaviness, all at once.

Someday, they would persuade Porthos to believe in the fullness of his talent and convince him to sing for them openly. Someday Porthos would no longer deny the angelic chorus he carried within, and would set aside his disbelief at their wonder.

One day, they would not have to listen from doorways, or while pretending sleep around a campfire – those times when the music emerged so unconsciously.

In the middle of that thought, the door to the water room creaked and widened as the music trailed off and Porthos emerged. Upon spotting them, he stopped and frowned, then shuffled unconsciously with the realization of his audience.

Aramis lifted his head, prompting Athos to shift his hand to an anchoring grip at the back of Aramis's collar. "I wish you'd let us talk you into sharing it more," he said. "Your voice is a wonder."

Porthos seemingly processed that, displaying a brief expression of fondness before looking away with an embarrassed smile. He took a breath without responding, then glanced back, settling his gaze on Athos and holding out a hand.

With a warm expression of his own, Athos accepted it, allowing Porthos to pull him to his feet. The both of them then levering Aramis up in turn.

"He's right, you know," said Athos. "It is a wonder."

Porthos huffed at him, collecting Athos's sword belt from its delicate hook and handing it over to him before replying. "So you say," he mumbled good-naturedly, as though they were teasing.

Accepting the sword, Athos felt tempted to take the time trying to convince him, for good this time. After exchanging a look with Aramis, he could see the temptation there for him as well. But they'd been here before.

With a small smile and a lightened sigh, he let it go, clapping Porthos on the shoulder as the three of them moved towards breakfast.

Some truths took time, he knew.

Even such simple ones as this.

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Title was snagged from an episode of a show, long-cancelled, called "Now and Again" which I'm pretty sure was referencing a composition of the same name by Mertena Louis Bancroft.


End file.
